Tag: writing

A Travel Memo from St. Louis

I traveled to St. Louis, Missouri, to be with my sister/cousin after her father’s passing. He lived to the remarkable age of 104. His name was Workiye Asfaw, though within the family we affectionately called him Goldiye, and sometimes Goldu, a simple English way of capturing the warmth and meaning of his Amharic name.

He is remembered not simply for how long he lived, but for how he chose to live. He was a gentle, disciplined man whose life followed a quiet rhythm of self-confidence and restraint. He was naturally reserved. You rarely hear a word from him that could disappoint or offend anyone. Often, he spoke so little that you could not easily tell where he stood on family matters or disagreements. Yet his silence was never emptiness; it was presence. He listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak, his words carried weight.

For decades (more than half a century), he was both a businessman and a farmer, working as a cattle trader. He walked miles each day across unforgiving terrain to buy and sell livestock, sometimes traveling as far as Harar and Dire Dawa from the Garamuleta area where he was rooted, a distance of nearly fifty to seventy miles. Movement was not an exercise to him; it was life itself. He was also an exceptional farmer, deeply skilled in traditional local farming systems. I still remember his rare ability to select and preserve the best maize and wheat seeds, a skill increasingly hard to find these days. His knowledge was practical, precise, and passed down quietly through example rather than instruction.

His eating habits were just as thoughtful. He ate carefully and sparingly, never more than he needed. He loved meat and had a remarkable eye for selecting the highest-quality cuts, but his meals were always balanced. Fresh vegetables from his own garden were a constant part of his diet. As far as I can recall, he rarely visited a doctor, perhaps not until the final five years of his life. His longevity felt less like a miracle and more like the natural outcome of balance, discipline, and intention. He lived in harmony with his body, his work, and the people around him. When I remember him, I do not think first of his age, but of his quiet presence, marked by steadiness, resilience, and endurance.

During my stay in St. Louis, people came and went from my sister’s home, offering condolences, sharing memories, and sitting together in silence when words felt inadequate. In the middle of this shared grief, I met two families unexpectedly, both originally from Eritrea.

At first, I did not realize where they were from. They spoke fluent Amharic, the Ethiopian official language, laughed easily, and moved through conversation like family. Like many of us, they were simply Habesha. The political borders that divide our homelands did not show themselves in language, humor, or shared gestures. Over two separate days, I spoke at length with both couples, and those conversations stayed with me long after the house grew quiet.

What struck me most was how closely aligned their views were, particularly on Eritrea, Ethiopia, and President Isaias Afwerki. Both families spoke with deep frustration and pain about the Eritrean political system. They described a country governed by fear: no freedom of speech, no freedom of religion, no freedom to pursue education independently. They spoke of Asmara University, once a prestigious institution, now closed. Every young Eritrean, they explained, is required to attend military training at Sawa, with no defined end to service. Opposition, even silence, mistaken for dissent could lead to imprisonment or death.

In contrast, they felt that Ethiopia, despite its many imperfections, offered relative freedom: the ability to travel, speak, own property, and exist without constant surveillance.

Both families had lived this reality firsthand. Each had completed mandatory military service before finding a way to escape. One wife of one couple had been born and raised in Dire Dawa, while the husband of the other couple was born and raised in Addis Ababa. During the Ethio-Eritrean war between 1998 and 2000, many Eritreans were deported from Ethiopia, some due to political involvement, others simply because their parents or grandparents were of Eritrean descent. Overnight, lives were uprooted. Identity dissolved into paperwork, and belonging became a fragile thing, easily questioned.

On the first day, I spoke at length with one of the men, a quiet and humble individual in his late thirties named Sami. He had been born in Addis Ababa but was deported to Eritrea during the war. When I casually remarked more provocatively than sincerely that I admired Isaias Afwerki, his expression shifted. Surprise crossed his face, followed by something closer to pain.

I clarified that I did not admire the system, but rather the blunt honesty of a dictatorship that did not attempt to disguise itself. Unlike Ethiopia, I said, which for decades has operated behind the scenes, behind constitutions, elections, and political theater, Isaias ruled without illusion, without performance, without promises.

Sami listened patiently. Then he began to tell his story.

After completing military service, he said, his only dream was to leave Eritrea. But leaving was not a decision; it was a gamble with death. Anyone caught attempting to escape could be imprisoned for years or executed without trial. Still, desperation sharpens courage. Some members of the military quietly assisted people in escaping for a price. Money opened doors that laws sealed shut.

Sami managed to gather enough to join a small group fleeing toward the Ethiopian border through the Tigray region. The most dangerous part of the journey was crossing the Tekezé River. The river was unforgiving, its current strong, its surface deceptive. Local guides were essential, people who understood the river’s temperament. The group tied themselves hand to hand and crossed diagonally, leaning into the water’s force. One mistake, Sami said, and the river would take you.

But that night, they survived.

When they finally reached Ethiopian territory, soaked and exhausted, Sami collapsed onto the ground not from fatigue alone, but from relief. For the first time in years, he felt the weight of fear lift, if only slightly. Freedom, he learned, does not arrive whole. Sometimes it begins with nothing more than standing on the other side of a river, still breathing.

From there, they were required to report to a refugee center, one primarily dedicated to welcoming Eritreans fleeing tyranny. During this uncertain period, Sami carried two rare opportunities with him. The first was the sacrifice he had already made: paying the price to escape Eritrea and return to Ethiopia, the homeland from which he had once been unlawfully deported. The second was even more fragile. He had won the U.S. Diversity Visa Lottery and had also been admitted to several universities in the United States on full scholarships.

These once-in-a-lifetime opportunities rested in his hands while he stood in a refugee camp with no access to the internet. Through patience and honesty, he approached a camp coordinator and explained his situation. The man was cautious but willing to lend a hand. Trust was not given easily. Eventually, Sami and others like him were permitted to travel to a nearby town, Shire, to access the internet. The journey itself was difficult, but they reached the city, sent emails, filled in forms, and took the first steps toward their future. They returned to the camp afterward, not because they had to, but because they wanted to honor the trust that had been given to them.

From there, the road slowly opened. There were setbacks. At one point, they were arrested in Gondar after someone reported them, but they were released the next day when the truth came to light. There were countless moments of fear, uncertainty, and exhaustion both in Eritrea and along the road to Ethiopia. But patience and perseverance carried them forward.

Eventually, Sami arrived in the United States. He completed his engineering degree. His wife pursued her own career. The same pattern echoed in the stories of the other couples I met.

One of the women spoke of her time at Sawa, where young men and women were taken from villages, cities, and countryside alike. At first, she said, there was division, misunderstanding, resentment, and distrust. But after six months of shared hardship, they became family. Suffering erased difference.

That, too, stayed with me.

Long after the condolences ended and the house grew quiet, these stories lingered. They reminded me that history is not only written in books or speeches; it is also lived. It lives in ordinary people who crossed rivers, lost homes, lost loved ones, endured silence, and still found a way to speak.

Shimelis Setegn, PhD

December 2025